


never knew loving could hurt this good

by azfellbooksellers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Image, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fat Shaming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Esteem Issues, but it does end happily. eventually, ignore the date: this is NOT v-day fluff kiddos, weeeee projecting onto Aziraphale today lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azfellbooksellers/pseuds/azfellbooksellers
Summary: Aziraphale has long had an aversion to physical affection. The mere fact that he exists in a body that can be looked at, catalogued, even touched by others has always been a bane to him. Then the body swap happens, and everything implodes.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 121





	never knew loving could hurt this good

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, have some angst! I'm feeling particularly transparent today. Anyway, if you're familiar with my stuff, I'm physically incapable of not ending things in a very happy and sweet way, so no worries, all will be well and what not. But first? Suffering!

It started small, this wretched thing. The brush of a few of his secondaries over the looping, crimson locks of the demon to his left sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn’t like it. 

Crawley shoots him a glance and slouches a little, drawing the bits of himself inwards and tucking them away, hidden. It puts air between them and Aziraphale lets out a breath he’d been guarding in his lungs. He doesn’t have to say thank you. 

Fat raindrops carve holes in the sand as they watch Adam and Eve disappear across the horizon, hand in hand. A breeze sends their robes billowing, splashing together like waves breaking on the sea. The only thing Aziraphale feels is the rain on his skin and the wind in his hair. He leans back on his heels and hums, smiling. 

They stay like that all night.

⁂

Time marches on. Frankly, avoiding being touched isn’t all too hard for him. He strays to the edges of crowds when he can, hands pulled taught to his stomach, wringing each other out like a beach towel engorged with salt water. 

The humans, clever little buggers, figure out body language before damn near anything else. He wades through the ages with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, blending into the crowds like an errant brushstroke. It's more than enough to ward away unwanted touches, to keep the mortals surrounding him arm's length away. He loves them, of course, their depth of emotions and incredible creations they get up to during their minuscule lifespans amazing him more and more with every passing generation. Blessings are the least he can offer them, and thankfully, they require nothing more than a wave of his hand. No need for all that skin-on-skin nonsense. 

He tells himself he is happy. 

⁂

Aziraphale is finishing his first cup of house brown when Crowley acquiesces to the oysters. 

“Right then. Best get a move on.” He tosses some more sesterces onto the bar and scoots his chair back loudly. 

“Oh. Well, it was lovely seeing you,” Aziraphale says, his tone masking his disappointment as much as Crowley’s glasses hide his eyes. His companion tilts his head and regards him.

“What are you on about? You still owe me those oysters for the drink, m’not a charity worker,” he calls over his shoulder as he drifts out of the building. Aziraphale throws an additional coin onto the counter and scuttles after him.

Rounds and rounds of muslum made sweet with honey and oysters drizzled in a fine squirt of lemon juice later, Crowley slips a temptation into their slurred conversation.

“Y’know,” he begins as he pushes his mostly untouched plate of oysters away from him. “Rumor has it there are some terribly lovely baths around here. Care for a dip?” Aziraphale snatches an oyster from Crowley’s plate and squeezes the lemon wedge with his finely manicured hands until it drips into the shell. 

“I don’t really see the point,” he says, before he purses his lips and sucks the mollusc free from its home. Crowley blinks rapidly in succession and clears his throat. 

“Really,” he asks, digging into the R and letting it drag across the rest of the word. “You, the hedonistic angel you are, don’t see the point of indulging a little?”

“I resent that accusation,” Aziraphale says. “I am  _ not  _ a hedonist.” 

He casts a pointed look to Aziraphale’s outstretched hand, poised to pluck another oyster from Crowley’s plate. The angel rolls his eyes.

“Besides,” he says. “We don’t have to bathe. All we have to do is-” he gestures vaguely with his free hand, “and we’re perfectly clean again. No need to get involved in...all that.”

“But it’s fun,” Crowley implores. “Come on, angel. First time for everything.” 

Aziraphale takes a deep draw from his cup in response. It had taken him less than a century to perfect the art of buying himself more time to respond through taking another bite or sip. He feels his heart rate tick up as he explores the idea in his mind. Spending time with Crowley is lovely, and he’s always found himself chasing after any morsel he can get, but to bathe together? The back of his neck tingles as he imagines Crowley’s eyes raking across his skin, across the terribly mortal looking container that Heaven had stuffed him into. He thinks of the bloated plains of his stomach, where the skin folds in on itself and spills over his hip bones. He remembers a glance in the mirror, catching his face from the right angle and seeing the complete lack of definition in his jaw, where his cheek and neck bleed into one another seamlessly. Feels the weight of his thighs as they spread across the chair beneath him, skin pulled taught. 

“No,” he says as he places the cup down. “I’m not interested.”

“Don’t be so stubborn. Who knows when we’ll see each other again?” Aziraphale meets Crowley’s gaze and searches, intently, to find a hint, a sliver of insincerity. Finding none, he slumps back in his seat. He’s right, of course. As often as circumstances seem to draw them to the same place, it hasn’t been unusual to go a decade or two apart, and he does so enjoy the demon’s company. 

A dark seed forms in his stomach as he considers the sight of Crowley, dropping his robes and striding into the water with his taut limbs on display. He imagines watching the water drop from his slick skin as he emerges from the bath, the way the warm oil would slide down the dips and valleys of his body. He finishes the remainder of his muslum. Surely he could find a way to distract Crowley for just a moment, until his own naked body was safely tucked under the blanket of water, hidden from inspection. 

“Well, alright then.” Crowley perks up in his seat and Aziraphale does his best to shove the giddy feeling it evokes down back into the depths of his subconscious. “After I’m finished with these.” 

Crowley arches an eyebrow at him. A millisecond too late, he realizes his misstep. He lurches forward to grab the plate, but the demon already has the last two oysters in hand. 

“Oh, no, don’t!” The tasty parts of the oysters have already disappeared into Crowley’s mouth, and the wince that follows only slightly takes the edge off the annoyance it brings about in Aziraphale. Crowley sticks his tongue out like he’s suddenly sobered himself up. 

“Eugh,” he says. “I honestly don’t understand how you enjoy those things. Anyway, time to go, up up!” He slides some coins onto the table and pounds it twice in excitement, rattling them together. Crowley hops up from his seat with a gleam in his eye and makes his way towards the door. Aziraphale wearily follows.

The walk to the bath is short, and before Aziraphale has come up with a solid plan of action, they’re turning off the street into a narrow footway and descending a staircase until they reach the vestibule of the underground bath. Its walls have posted advertisements for theatre productions and gladiatorial shows. Various rooms lead away from the main area, and a few men are seated on  _ scholae  _ by the entrance.

Crowley strolls past the waiting men and approaches the  _ balneator,  _ a stout man currently collecting coins from a group of men. He ushers them along with his hands.

“Master Crowley,” he says warmly. “What can we do for you?” 

“I’d like a private room, please. No attendants needed.” 

“Of course,” the man said. “The  _ apodyterium  _ is through here.” He leads them to one of the side rooms, which expands into a large open space with cubbies built into the walls. “Please remove your clothing here before proceeding to the  _ caldarium _ .” The man lets himself out, and they are alone. 

Aziraphale looks around the room desperately. They are alone, thankfully, but it’s not enough. Crowley moves to unpin his robe and panic grips Aziraphale in its clutches. 

The thick robe falls from Crowley’s shoulders and pools on the ground beneath him. He picks it up and folds it haphazardly before placing it into one of the cubbys. His hand comes up to the arm of his glasses. He hesitates. 

Crowley leaves them on and turns to face Aziraphale. He arches a thin eyebrow at him.

“What’re you doing? Get undressed,” he says, amused. Aziraphale smooths his hand down the front of his robe and glances about.

“I’d...I think I’d prefer not to, thank you.” He swallows deeply and tries not to stare. His eyes drop to the floor, but the long, thin lengths of Crowley’s legs stay firmly rooted in his peripheral vision. 

“What do you mean? It’s a bath, angel. Nudity is sort of a prerequisite. Nobody’s even here,” Crowley says, his face twisted in confusion. 

"You're here," Aziraphale says, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could stopper them, like sand pouring through outstretched fingers. Crowley's lips tighten and he turns away.

"Right," he says. "Wouldn't want a demon seeing all that holy skin, I suppose?" His words are laced with venom and dripping with contempt, more snakelike than he's deigned to be in decades. Something pulls taught at Aziraphale's chest and he clasps his hands there.

"I didn't mean it that way," he calls at Crowley's retreating form. The demon stops, but doesn't look at him. "I only...I don't like it." Crowley turns his head and regards him with furrowed brow.

"I don't like to be seen," he clarifies. "In that way." The terse expression melts from Crowley's face and he turns his body back to face him. He brings a hand up and rubs at the nape of his crimson hair.

"I won't look. Promise," he says, softly. "I'll go in myself and....close my eyes. Bask in the water and what not. Let me know when you're comfortable." He turns on a heel and walks into the  _ caldarium _ . 

Aziraphale bites his lip and digs a sandal clad toe into the floor. He takes a deep breath and removes his clothing carefully before placing it into the cubby next to Crowley's. After he's done, he pads into the next room. It's a gorgeous room, full of arched architecture and fine statues. In its center is the sizable bath, steaming with slightly clouded water that gave off a delightfully sweet aroma. Crowley was submerged, water coming up to his hirsute chest, his long, muscled arms spread on either side, languidly draped over the lip of the bath. True to his promise, he's removed his glasses so Aziraphale can see that his eyes remain firmly shut.

He approaches the opposite side and dips his toe into the water. It's more viscous than regular bathwater as a result of the salts and perfumes poured in, and it's just a touch too warm, promising to keep him pleasantly toasty as his body adjusts. Belatedly, he notices that it’s even opaque enough to conceal Crowley’s body where it’s submerged. He descends a small set of stairs and lets the steaming water soothe his aching muscles.

He makes his way over to the bench jutting out from the bath wall and sits on it gently.

“Alright,” he says. “You can open your eyes.” Crowley lifts his head and does as he’s told. He takes in the contented expression Aziraphale is wearing and breaks out into a broad grin.

“See, angel? I told you it’d be nice. You should listen to me more often.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes and deeply inhales, letting the pleasant smell overtake him.

“Do shut up, dear. You’re far too smug.” He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, feet kicking under the surface. 

“Smug? Me?” Aziraphale ignores him and continues to bask in the water.

Seconds later, a wave of water hits him square in the face. He lets out a gasp and opens his eyes. His curls are drenched, dribbling water onto him and laying flat on his forehead. 

Crowley is pursing his lips, trying and failing to conceal the smile that threatens to bloom on his face. He finally gives up and devolves into booming laughter.

“Was that supposed to be funny?” Crowley doesn’t answer, as he’s too busy bending in half to clutch at his stomach, his face inches from the surface of the water.

Aziraphale huffs and swipes the wet hair from his forehead. Suddenly, an idea pops into his mind. He swiftly crosses the bath, places a hand on the back of Crowley’s head, and dunks it into the water. 

A moment later, Crowley surfaces, sputtering, his ridiculous curls ruined and dripping water all over him. He spits out a mouthful of bath water theatrically. 

“Angel, what the fuck was that? I nearly swallowed dirty bath water! Do you know, there have been countless asses soaking about in here!” This time, Aziraphale is the one bent in half with mirth. He straightens himself back out and wipes tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic, it’s not like you’ll get sick. Besides, you paid for the finest accommodations, this water is fresh as a daisy. You certainly deserve it after you soaked me, don’t you think?”

Crowley glares at him and they look at each other for a long moment. Finally, Crowley breaks face, and his lips pull back into a smile. Aziraphale lets out a contagious laugh, and suddenly they’re both chuckling. Crowley splashes another bout of water at Aziraphale, who counters, and soon they’re circling each other splashing away and giggling like school boys. 

A bit of water nearly hits Aziraphale in the eye, just before the voice interrupts them.

“Will you be needing assistance, today, sirs?” A young servant is standing at the entrance of the room, towel and basin of oil in hand. 

The splashing stops. Azirapahle whips around to see the boy and sinks down until the water is up to his neck.

“Get out,” Crowley spits. “I specifically asked to be left alone. Paid a fucking fortune for it, actually, so get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” the boy says, his face terror stricken as he takes in Crowley’s uncovered eyes. “I’m so sorry, I must have the wrong room, it was an accident -”

“I said get the  _ fuck  _ out, now. Stop apologizing and go, get out!” The boy turns and sprints from the room, his sandals slapping the floor noisily and oil splashing everywhere. A heavy silence descends upon them as soon as he’s gone.

Aziraphale has barely taken two steps toward the exit when a hand circles around his wrist. It’s a light touch, and it burns every inch of him like a hot stove.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tries after a minute, his words as soft and reassuring as his grip on the angel’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I never meant for...I’m sorry. I really am.” Aziraphale can feel the gaze leveled at the back of his head.

“It’s alright. I’m not mad at you, Crowley. Only…” He bites down hard on his lower lip. “Only, please don’t touch me.”

Crowley drops his wrist like he’s been electrocuted. Aziraphale pauses, considers following up with reassurances, but his lips and hands are trembling violently. He snaps his fingers to redress himself, and then snaps again once he’s out of the water to dry off.

He leaves in silence.

⁂

Crowley hasn’t touched him since Rome. They’d come close, of course. You can only pass so many bottles and walk so many streets without a wrong move, a small miscalculation or assumption that brings you right to the edge of disaster. But he’d always caught himself in the instant before contact.

Aziraphale hates it.

He supposes it’s only fair, really. He is aware of the contradiction he espouses, and his own bullish awkwardness, but it doesn’t stop him. His eyes trail after Crowley’s slim fingers as they retreat from passing their shared bottle of Chianti. He follows them all the way to his settee, where they splay out casually and caress the back ridge of it. The obsidian nail polish reflects the soft yellow light of his lamps as the hand undulates on the wood, rubbing circles into it like a wild animal that needs soothing. 

What would it feel like to have those fingers rub circles onto him? To feel the pad of one stroke across his brow bone and massage away the tension, built up over millennia. The grounding weight of a squeeze to the cheek, tethering him to their shared reality. He imagines the pleasant drag of skin on skin, the fluttering tingling it might leave behind. Crowley could drop his hands from his face and pull him close by the waist and, oh.

The waist. He presses a hand to his vest and feels the flesh there, lets his digits curve over the swell of it. It takes no effort to dig his fingers in and feel the sheer space it takes up. His cheeks are aflame. 

Wretched old fool, he thought to himself. To imagine, to  _ dare  _ and think Crowley would want that. That he wouldn’t shudder when his fingers sunk into the softness of his stomach, or arms, or legs, wouldn’t draw back like he’d been burned, yellow eyes searing and disgusted. 

“Angel?” Aziraphale broke his gaze from his lap and looked upwards. “You alright?” 

He considers, for a moment, after all this time, finally letting the dam break and confessing everything to Crowley. It’s been thousands of years now, and they are in fact dear friends. Crowley is staring at him, awaiting his answer, as patient and concerned as he always is. He pulls at the bottom of his vest, worn from thousands of attempts to pull it low enough to cover his traitorous stomach, and hesitates to answer.

“Yes, yes I,” he clears his throat. “I’m afraid I was a bit distracted there. Tip top, though. No need to worry.” Crowley searches his face for a long moment, before shrugging and pouring himself another drink.

“Well, alright. If you’re sure.”

And the opportune moment passes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, there is fluff to be had, but I fully intend on making you work for it. Hopefully shouldn't be too long until the next update, I've got a few days off in a row coming up and I'm hoping to get the rest of this done then!
> 
> Also, I did my best with historical accuracy here, buuuuuuuut dinosaurs don't even canonically exist in this universe, so I didn't spend too too much time on it!
> 
> Title is from “WILD” by Troye Sivan.


End file.
